


Phlox and the Dragon Trick

by AniasTrevelyan (Callmeisolde)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmeisolde/pseuds/AniasTrevelyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Da:FicSwap on Tumblr, my swap partner Tumblr user playfulclaws has a fantastic original Lavellan named Phlox who gained the ability to transform into a Dragon upon drinking from the Well of Sorrows. She requested a fic about "the first time" when Phlox transforms by accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phlox and the Dragon Trick

They’re passing through the dales on the way to the Western Approach when they’re set upon by the Venatori.

Dorian has already begun his blighted complaining – too warm then too cold, food is atrocious, ground is too hard – the difference is that what was once infuriating has taken on this odd sort of charm. The wrinkle of his nose when he pushes away his camp rations, the crook of his eyebrow as he glumly criticizes The Iron Bull’s cleanliness. Like anyone in a new relationship, Phlox is finding it difficult to be anything other than charmed by Dorians prattling.

With the comforting hum of his parties bickering behind him, Phlox faces into the sunshine. They are passing through a lightly treed area, gaps in the shadows allowing warm, golden sun to shine on the party. The edges of the trail darkened with brush and rock. The depths of the green there fade into the brown of the earth – the earth that long ago absorbed the blood of the Elven people.

Phlox closes his eyes, the thrum of his own blood pushing at his temples – a familiar ache since he drank from the Well of Sorrows. He stills his body, allows himself to listen to the whispers that never truly abate.

This is when the Venatori strike.

His response is learned, automatic – muscle memory calling mana to his fingertips as quickly as his lungs gather breath. He mutters a prayer under his breath – the sweet Elvish words twisting and turning over his tongue as the prayers turn to incantations.

The enemy party appears to include several zealots, some marksmen and of course, one spellbinder (that Phlox can see, they tend to flit around a bit). He decides to pick off the marksmen while Iron Bull deals with the melee fighters. Phlox sends a fire glyph searing between the archers, their leathers catching alight. His mouth quirks into a smile when he catches Dorian out of the corner of his eye, the other mage grinning from ear to ear as he traces a purple glyph in the air over his chest – power exploding forth in a shower of sparks. Bull’s already taken down one of the swordsmen, and Solas stands to the side, dispelling the magical effects of the spellbinder even as he attempts to cast them.

Phlox sets fire to the air between himself and the nearest archer; he is already calling a wall of it from the depths of the blood soaked earth to separate the enemy from his compatriots. As the flames rise up, pain suddenly flairs in his head, his vision going dark for a second as the whispers turn to shouts. The words are hard to understand, they are Elvish but not Elvish. They are familiar but not known. He stumbles, unsure if the voices are truly in his head or not as Dorians voice mingles with the other shouts. The Altus calls his name and the other words sharpen, coming into focus. Become become become.

Mother protector, purveyor of justice, preserve me now – _Mythal tel’enfenim_.

Instead of fighting against the whispers, he surrenders to them, they tell him of a great power he only need reach for to claim. He struggles. I don’t deserve your favor Mythal, I don’t deserve to wield your light…

He resists the urge to reach out with his mind and tug at the light held there – pulls himself back from the whispered voices.

As he comes to himself, he realizes he has stumbled to his knees. He shakes his head, trying to piece together the location of the Venatori. Dorian has bound the archers Phlox was fighting with a static cage, the concern in those pools of grey makes Phlox’s heart tumble in his chest. He waves; I’m OK, starts to make it to his feet.

Dorian doesn’t see the Stalker. Maybe it’s the whispers of the well that warn Phlox, but the light shifts around his lover just so and Phlox feels a surge of protective instinct under ribs. His eyes bloom with light as his body erupts with flame. He feels himself burning, skin blackening to ash as the fire licks his bones clean, making way for some other shape -- a form foreign to him but called from within. As the flames consume him, the voices from The Well shout madly in his ears and he knows he should be terrified – but the great gulps of his own mana cold in his stomach calm him as he changes form.

#

Dorian sees Phlox stumble and his brain is wracked for a reason.

Didn’t see the Elf hit, could it be a stalker materializing from behind? A flickering bolt of electricity that Dorian didn’t see in time? He throws a crystal blue barrier over the inquisitor as he falls to his knees even as Dorians own expires. He calls Phlox’s name, staff sending sparks and flames into the spellbinder that flits away from Solas and Bull with effortless Tevinter grace. Phlox’s firewall expires and Dorian effortlessly binds the archers with a static cage.

After a moment, Phlox seems to come to himself. He shakes his head, catching Dorians eye briefly and waving his hand. I’m OK. He plants a foot under himself and Dorian attempts to convey his concern in a glance from across a battlefield. His attention momentarily divided he is utterly surprised to feel the distinct unpleasantness of two cold, iron daggers plunging through the thick woven fabric of his robes and into the vulnerable spaces below his shoulder blades.

He emits a strangled shout as his back arcs towards the uncloaked rogue. His vision blurs for an instant as searing hot pain shoots out from the wound, his mana and power tenderly probing the injuries in an attempt to heal severed flesh. The rogue dives away as Solas turns an icy blast in his direction and Dorian drops to his knees for an instant, shaking hands searching for an elfroot potion in the satchel at his side. As his numb fingers search for the cool glass bottle a scorching column of fire rises in front of him and he is pushed backwards by the force with which it materializes. Lying in the dirt, earth mixing with his own blood, Dorian watches as a shape takes form in the flames finding himself suddenly in the looming presence of a golden-skinned dragon.

The head of the dragon snakes up from the golden body, blackened and ridged, black rings spiraling around its graceful neck. It’s not a large dragon, not like some of the ones they’ve fought, about three quarters the size of the massive blue and green Vinsomer they encountered on the Storm Coast. The beast is no less fearsome for its comparative size; however, its black eyes flashing as the flames that seemed to give it life flicker off its hide.

Dorian’s chest tightens with fear, the dragon steps forward, setting the ground rumbling under its feet. It dips its head, eyes casting left and right, seeming to search for something. Its dark eyes finally find purchase and deep rumbling noise is emitted from its throat. The jaw hinges open, maw wide, red, and dark, and clamps down around the cloaked stalker – the rogues shields shimmering brokenly as he is

devoured, flickering into visibility as the dragon shakes him right and left and throws his corpse back into the woods.

The dragon seems to delight in its kill, head turning upwards, its face bathed in the light of the sun drifting in over the tips of the trees just as Phlox had turned up his face seemingly moments ago.

Somewhere behind Dorian he can hear the spellbinder cut off midway through his last incantation. The Iron Bull’s gruff voice wondering where in the name of Andraste that dragon came from and then something else in Qunlat that Dorian vaguely understands as appreciative. The sounds of the clearing are rapidly beginning to fade out of his peripherals as his blood continues to mix with the earth. Solas appears in his rapidly narrowing field of vision, the elf’s eyes darting back to the dragon anxiously. He pushes an elfroot potion into Dorians numb hands and guides it to his mouth.

“Quickly Dorian, drink.”

The Altus does as he is told for once, forcing the sweet plant mixture past his rising gag reflex. As the world again comes into focus, wounds knitting, mana and elfroot absorbing into the internal injuries and piecing things back together, Dorian struggles to sit up. The dragon is moving frantically back and forth in the clearing, its tail swinging dangerously behind it, strange guttural noises rising from the craggy black mouth.

“Phlox?” The name of his lover on his lips before he can form any other word or question.

Solas, eyebrows knitted together in a strangely unfamiliar expression, points towards the lumbering dragon.

“THAT is Phlox.”

Dorian braces himself on his arms, squinting across the clearing at the dragon who suddenly appears less aggressive and more terrified. It throws itself left and right, horns catching fire, tail suddenly blazing. It thrashes, catching the brush on fire.

“Not that I’m not enjoying this,” The Iron Bull suddenly appears at Dorians elbow, helping him to his feet. “But if we don’t get out of here we’re gonna end up tinder.”

Solas shakes his head, “it’s The Well, I’m sure of it – I warned him.”

“So how does he change back?” Dorian asks, trying to adjust his tone so he doesn’t sound quite so frantic.

“My guess?” Solas quickly casts winters grasp on a bush lit aflame by Phlox’s thrashing tail. “He has to figure it out himself.”

The three companions retreat to what they envision is a safe distance and set about the task of controlling the damage done by the rampaging dragon Phlox. For all the fire and the guttural roaring that tears itself from Phlox’s long throat, the thrashing and stomping and clumsy flapping of wings -- he seems utterly lost and somehow small. At some point, he gains air beneath his wings and picks up off the ground. Dorian swears in Tevene and they race after him.

The Iron Bull seems to have an advantage as they race through the trees and undergrowth; his height comes in handy as Phlox disappears above the tree line. Somewhere in front of them, there is the sound

of a massive collision, the ground rumbles, and Dorian stumbles. He gets to his feet with a grimace and is with Solas and Bull as they break into another clearing to find Phlox -- back to his Elven form and lying naked and cloaked in ash. Dorian rushes forward, helping Phlox to his knees, carefully looking his lover over with wide grey eyes.

“Mana.” Phlox whispers hoarsely, his voice sounding like it is scraping against broken glass. He grasps at his throat, grimacing. “…and water.”

Dorian does as he is bidden, helping Phlox to drink the blue mana potion first, and then watching him gulp fiercely from a water skin, colour returning to his face under the yellow of his tan.

“What in the blazes just happened?” Dorian demands when it looks like Phlox can answer him. Solas manages a gruff laugh off to the side, pulling a ragged spare robe from his satchel and offering it to Phlox to cover himself. Iron Bull offers the Inquisitor his discarded staff and Phlox uses it to help himself to his feet, shaking off Dorians worried hands.

“Solas?” Phlox mumbles questioningly.

“Well, Inquisitor.” He spits the words and Phlox seems to flinch. “It seems your decision to drink from the Well of Sorrows, despite the protestation of your companions, has revealed its price.”

“Is it really a price?” The Iron Bull is looking Phlox over rather too thoughtfully for Dorians liking. “I mean, we wanted a way to take down Corypheus dragon and here comes the inquisitor – changing into a dragon himself. Seems like Mythal or whatever—like we’ve got what we asked for.”

“I… I did turn into a dragon didn’t I?” Through his expression of complete exhaustion, Phlox manages to look a little sheepish.

“Yes, you did, and you almost burned down the forest around us mind you. You might, in the future, consider warning us before you pull a stunt like this again?”

“It was hardly a stunt Dorian,” the tips of Phlox’s ears seem to redden under the scrutiny, he sways on his feet, using his staff for support. “I saw you stabbed by the stalker, saw you fall and I just… I just…”

Dorian remembers the great dragon hunting for the stalker in the clearing, ending the battle with a flick of his tail and a single well timed bite. Phlox had transformed just as the knives plunged into Dorians back.

“You are remarkably foolish.” Dorian chides softly.

“Actually boss, I would say you’re remarkably bad ass.” The Iron Bull grumbles.

“Come, let’s return to camp. We’ll send a raven to Skyhold…” Solas starts.

“Leliana will already know.” Dorian sneers, fluttering behind Phlox as they begin to walk back the way they came.

“We will have to research this – delve into the history. There’s no precedent for how this might affect ...” Solas try’s again.

“Bad asssss.” Bull hisses as they trail through the bushes.

Dorian has little patience for the arguments, his hand comes to rest on Phlox’s elbow, a small touch that wouldn’t seem out of place were they wandering the grounds of Skyhold or meandering through the library.

Phlox turns his eyes, still echoing with the memory of flames, and meets Dorians. Alive in the embers there, _relief._


End file.
